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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400408">You'll Be The Voice In My Head</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Servant, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Trine upon trine before skekMal took Leina, another Gelfling sat by his fire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>skekMal (Dark Crystal)/Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You'll Be The Voice In My Head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456171">Mercy</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardToThra/pseuds/BardToThra">BardToThra</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I got the ok from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardToThra">BardToThra</a> to post this, so I'm just gonna do it now before I lose my nerve. ᕕ(ಥʖ̯ಥ)ᕗ</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Forest was cold this time of the trine, moreso now that they were deep into the winter ninet.  Aenan was well accustomed to the cold, his pure Vapran blood keeping him from freezing on even the harshest nights; even so he shivered under the heavy furs his Love had allowed him in his absence, huddled by the fire at the camp's centre.</p><p>At least the Brothers had set, now, a relief even as they took their warmth away with their departure.  Daylight had become nearly painful ever since his Love had ruined his eye (though how it could be ruined when he could still see from it—no, of course, his Love knew best) and the rays reflecting off the glittering snow was worse by tenfold.  Besides, at night his Love would return, victorious and laden with the fruits of the day's hunt.</p><p>Though those fruits grew thinner, as the season turned.  And his Love grew agitated more easily, his rages increasingly unpredictable, and Aenan's assurances of love and loyalty only seemed to stoke that violent flame all the hotter.  Often of late, in the throes of his Love's embrace, Aenan had realised—a wretched, treasonous thought—that he feared for his life, as talons rent his flesh in ribbons and rivers.</p><p>It was a terrible thing, that fear, as selfish as it was trivial.  His life was his Love's, as surely as the Crystal shone.  Whatever fate he had planned for Aenan was Thra's will, and he could only accept this future he could not know.  That was the way of the Gelfling: pitiful and insignificant creatures that they were.  For one so mighty as his Love to choose him, Aenan knew, was a blessing he could never deserve.</p><p>There was a loud <b>pop</b> from the fire, making Aenan jump and scoot away, wary of the sparks that danced upward like Chrysalisday lanterns.  His Love had used the fire to punish him not so long ago, pressing his back against its smoldering coals as he made love to him, the skin blistering red and then black.  It had been a punishment well-deserved (though he could not recall what he had done to incense him so) yet he nonetheless shied away from fire ever since, even when his chilled flesh begged for the warmth his blood alone could not provide.</p><p>A wind blew through the camp, shaking a fine mist of snow from the boughs above (sugar sprinkled on Vapran Frost).  Aenan was considering retreating into the shelter of the tent, wondering if he Love would be angry that he had not waited up to serve him, when the flames <b>pop</b>ped again, and in a rush of heat he heard it.</p><p>It was the voice of the flame itself.</p><p>Or rather—not <i>this</i> flame, the one his Love had left him with.  It was a tendril snaking between the wisps, a whisper of song as blue as the sky over Ha'rar.</p><p>"Who are you?" he asked it—leaning dangerously nearer, his fear forgotten for the moment.</p><p><i>Listen,</i> the blue flame whispered back. <i>Let me help you.</i></p><p>It had been so long since Aenan had dreamfasted, he had almost forgotten what it was like, though he remembered enough to know this was not quite the same.  Still the thoughts and memories that came were not his own: flashes of a life, the laughter of a boy dearly loved, the comforting smell of bread-and-clove; suffering, misery, a blade in between raindrops.</p><p>And over it all, looming like a monster in a childling's tale, was the face of his Love.</p><p>The sound Aenan made was half a wail, half a shout of outrage.  In an instant he was on his feet: his every muscle taut as a bowstring as he stared down the colour that promised safety, escape, <b>treason</b>.</p><p>His lost finger screamed; his bruises sang; his scars twisted and burned.</p><p>"Witch!" he cried, cutting her mind away from his before she could further spread her poison. "You would have me betray my Love, but I would sooner <b>die</b>!  And you..."</p><p>It was only a moment, a whisper on the Breath of Thra.  But in that moment Aenan met her eyes, like wide and luminous moons staring from the night sky.</p><p>"You should die, too—for your betrayal."</p><p>The flame was silent, its song halted mid-note.  The witch held her venom behind her teeth.</p><p>"Who the fuck are you talking to?"</p><p>As if waking from a spell Aenan snapped back to himself, whirling on the spot to face his Love.  The Hunter was breaking through the treeline around their camp, the day's spoils—a covey of Katyaken, from what Aenan could see—slung over his shoulder.  He gave Aenan a look, and the boy remembered that he had been asked a question; when he turned back to the fire, the witch was gone.</p><p>"A ghost," he answered, because what else could it have been?  His Love grunted, clearly unconcerned, and dumped his quarry beside the fire.  He came up on Aenan's side and wrenched him about by the neck, the boy like a childling's doll in his grip.</p><p>"Make yourself useful," he ordered with a shove. "Start the water for those."</p><p>Aenan's heart swelled, warmed at the thought of being of use to his Love.  The Hunter released his neck to strike him squarely across the jaw with a closed fist. "And don't make those fucking eyes at me, slattern."</p><p>The fire was quiet, the blue song gone from its flame.</p><p>(Perhaps it had never been there to begin with.)</p>
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